Suitably Numb
by Ernil i Pheriannath
Summary: John has a small breakdown after having to save Sherlock yet again. This time from the torrents of the River Thames. ONE SHOT for now, will continue if liked. Angst/Whump for those who love it. Please R&R.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello there my friends. I have been a busy little bee recently so i have been unable to do much ff writing. I have a long Sherlock story in the making, however my laptop is currently out of order and i havent had a chance to sort it, or get hold of my lovely beta. I have a few little drabbles and bits from Merlin and Sherlock i want to publish soon. For now, here is a little thing i wrote over a couple of days. It isnt beta'd but can be if i continue. It wont be long if i do. Ive always fancied seeing one of them drown in the Thames, im so mean... but its just asking to happen. Its whump/angst fic and purely that, so if you enjoy that sort of thing then continue on...**

**Enjoy... please review...**

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><p>Terror. That was what it felt like, complete and utter blinding terror. It was all John Watson could feel right now. His heart pounding so loudly in his ears he barely registered the inspector shouting over the intolerable din. <em>Intolerable. <em>Would he ever hear that word uttered again from the genius's mouth?

John set out at a full blown sprint. Taking across Westminster bridge at the speed of light. Sherlock had gone into the water in the middle of the river after a struggle with the latest of London's low life's. Lestrade, coming to the rescue had wrestled the offending individual to the concrete before John even had a chance to punch the bastard in the face. The inspector must have been following them in a squad car. The events were lost in John's head as he raced down the steps several at a time, jumping the final flight and landing onto the pathway below he headed for the south bank. With any luck he could head off the detective at Waterloo bridge, cutting off the corner of the river, the only chance to catch up with his flatmate before it was too late. Sherlock's head had only bobbed up a few times before being swept along with the violent autumn currents.

The doctor raced though the crowds at the London eye, knocking several people off there feet, curse words threw in his direction but he did not look back, eyes still fixed on the Thames for any signs of Sherlock resurfacing. How long had it been since his darn coat had dragged him under, a minute? Two? Three?

Before long the steps of Waterloo bridge came into his sights, John bounced two at a time, eyes half fixed on the water when he finally spotted him, across towards the other side as he expected. His black curls broke the surface, but the rest of him did not. In blind panic he pushed on, muscles burning, air sucking in and out of his screaming lungs. Buses and taxis blaring horns at him as he bolted across the busy road. He crossed second bridge quicker, but perhaps because this time he had a target to reach. He lost sight of his friend upon reaching the last arch of the bridge, it was then the military part of John's brain kicked in. He planted his hands into the railings and catapulted himself up and over the top. Passers by rushed to the side and watched in trepidation as John hit the water and went under.

The freezing cold Thames hit the soldier harder than he imagined it would. As the water rushed up to meet him he felt a sharp pain rip into his right ankle, that would be fractured then, just a minor annoyance. He kicked desperately for the surface, it was only when the panic began to set in that daylight flooded his vision once again. After a frantic search he finally caught sight of his best friend, just ahead of him. He struck out, kicking wildly with the current to catch up with the detective, ankle screaming out in agony at the rough treatment, but John had only on thing in mind.

It was only a matter of seconds, (which had felt like minutes to the doctor) before John caught hold of Sherlock's heavy water laden coat, clearly weighing the lanky man down. He pulled hard, desperately fighting against the raging torrents and already freezing limbs, hypothermia was going to set in soon. The bank was only metres away, a small jetty just out of reach, typically that owned by the RNLI lifeboats.

"Picked the right spot sherlock." John spluttered, reaching forward again, energy draining quickly now. His hand met the wood and he held on with an iron grip, hauling sherlock with the opposite arm, grunting at the effort. He pushed the soaked detective up and onto the jetty, watching in complete horror as his body simply rolled limply onto his chest, his feet, remarkable still shoed dragging back in the Thames. John pulled himself up behind, ignoring the now complete uselessness of his right leg and the freezing cold now setting into his bones from the chilled November wind.

"Sherlock!" The doctor tried to even out his heaving breaths. He rolled the great man over, his hand coming to find his carotid pulse. Weak, barely palpable, but most defiantly there. John's eyes fell on his friends face, grey white, black curls clinging to the pallid skin and lips a sickening shade of blue. Not breathing then. The doctor mode kicked in then, pushing Sherlock's head back he pinched the mans nose and taking in a gulp of air he tried to reinflate the detective lungs. No response, he tried again, a shot of panic began to take hold. Sherlock's lips were frozen like ice against the doctors, surely not a good sign. Still no response, carotid pulse, still there, weaker, slower.

"Come on you dick." Johns heart pounded against his aching chest, "your not going like this." Sealing his lips over his friends again, he refilled the congested lungs with as much air as he could. A pause. John pulled back suddenly and his friends body convulsed. The splutter of water practically made it onto the doctors face and John pushed the detective over into the recovery position. River spilled out onto the wooden jetty from Sherlock's lungs, an alarmingly large pool of water puddled before finally Sherlock tried to draw in fresh air. He coughed violently, trying desperately to suck in a breath only to convulse against the effort, more of the Thames bubbling up from deep in his chest. Finally after several strained gasps he retched pitifully, more water and what meagre contents of his stomach adding to the now disturbing amount of liquid expelled from the man.

"Easy" John tried to console Sherlock's straining form, still struggling for a full breath, shivering started to rack the detectives body, his eyes drooping dramatically, clearly not registering a thing from the glassy stare he wore.

"Oh no, you stay awake you git!" John felt the shakes starting to pull on his own muscles, if he was already feeling the effects of hypothermia god knows what his friend was feeling. Suitably numb.

"Christ are you two trying to kill me?" A breathless voice cut though John's thoughts, and one exhausted looking inspector stumbled onto the jetty making the wood rock slightly. Greg's face turned from the slight annoyed red to a grim shade of grey when his eyes came to rest of the detectives form. "An ambulance is on it's way, how is he?"

"Hypothermia." John felt his own teeth chatter saying it, knowing all too well he was succumbing to it too. "He was..."

John couldn't bring himself to say it, he clenched his jaw as he felt Lestrade's hand come to rest on his shoulder, he could feel his emotional wall beginning to crumble.

Sherlock moaned and coughed weakly from beneath him and the detective managed to push himself back over onto his back, away from the mess on the decking. Bracing his arms at his side he tried to push up, only to hiss in pain.

"Don't move you cock, you just bloody drowned!" His voice was wavering.

"J...John." The detective managed though a violent shudder of cold, his eyes slitting open only slightly.

That was it, the walls came crashing down. The doctors eyes filled quickly with saltwater and began streaming down his already soaking cheeks. "Don't you ever do that again." His voice rose up angrily. "Do you hear me Sherlock!"

"John." Lestrade pulled gently at the older mans shoulder but it fell on deaf ears.

"Are you listening?" John was practically shouting now. He jerked Greg's hand off him and taking his flatmate by the shoulders he shook him. "Are you listening sherlock?!"

Sherlock's eyes rolled and he tried desperately to open them fully to no avail. "John... p...please. I..." His voice slurred dramatically and eyes fell shut and it was followed by a long gasping bout of coughing.

"Don't you ever die again!" John bellowed. Slapping his best friend across the cheek hard, the sound brought the doctor out his angered daze and he froze. Looking down to the detective, Sherlock's brows furrowed in pain, and uncontrollable tremors starting to overtake his frozen pale body. The blogger let out a cry of anguish then and buried his head into Sherlock's soaking coat, letting the saltwater mix with the river water, he sobbed.

Lestrade, taken aback for a moment by the outburst of emotion stood slightly perplexed on the spot, watching the scene before him. The bond between these two were stronger than he had ever seen, he had seen the wreck of the doctor after Sherlock's famous 'fall' from Barts, it came as no surprise how angry the detective made his flatmate.

"Ambulance service." A young lady appeared suddenly before him. That was quick.

"Eh." Still somehow shell shocked he lost his words for a moment. The second medic had passed the young lady and was trying to separate the doctor from his friend.

"Near drowning." Greg finally managed to speak. "I think John revived him. Both suffering hypothermia." He watched for a moment to see that the older medic was struggling to remove John's sobbing form from Sherlock's now quite obviously unconscious one.

"John." He placed a hand on the doctors shoulder for the second time and this time John's red rimmed puffy eyes met his for a moment. "You need to let them help."

The doctor pulled back, but refused to let go of the Belstaff coat. This however seemed to pose little problems as the one medic pulled Sherlock's arm from the garment, removing his second jacket to find vascular access and place an IV line. Within moments, an oxygen mask was applied half of the detectives clothes were stripped from him and two IV catheters had been placed.

"Come on John, we need to get you to hospital too." Lestrade pulled gently but the doctor refused to move, an agonising shot of pain reminded him then that his ankle was broken, there would be no walking for a while.

"Ankle." The doctor managed to say finally, his voice barely audible to the inspector, he began to shiver again. "It's fractured."

"Oh." Greg faltered. "Hang on."

John didn't really notice we're the inspector disappeared to, his eyes did not move from the medics working on his friend. He knew the procedure, and it wasn't long before Sherlock's form was already on a small trolly ready for moving to the ambulance. John felt sick. His friends unconscious form back on a gurney, just like he had been outside the front of Barts, just like at Magnussen's after the shooting. How many times was he going to almost lose this idiot before he wasn't able to save him and he lost him for good. John's stomach betrayed him, and he emptied it into the river just as Lestrade returned. The doctor felt a large heavy blanket wrapped around his shoulders and Greg helped lift him gently into a wheelchair.

"I need to go with him." He choked out, watching as Sherlock's limp form was whisked off towards the waiting ambulance by the banks of the Thames.

"I know. I told them." Greg answered softly. He pushed John quickly after the paramedics and was before the waiting ambulance in moments.

The doctor took little note to the going's on, the cold was becoming overwhelming. His body started to shake with vigour. Somehow he was now inside the vehicle, Greg was to one side of him, and what seemed like a third medic had appeared before him trying to talk to him. John didn't answer the questions, he was tired and cold. A sharp pain in his hand brought his senses back to the forefront and he looked down to find an IV being taped into place, and a large warm bag of fluid beginning to flow into his veins. The ambulance doors closed. The blogger felt his eyes drift close, they were safe finally, he could relax for once, in seconds he felt himself drift into darkness, the pain from his ankle and the agonising cold disappearing from his mind, now suitably numb.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: sorry all for the lack of update. Here's chapter 2, chapter 3 is written so will be up shortly pending good feedback I suppose. Enjoy and let me know what you think.**

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><p>The first thing John realised before he had even opened his eyes was that his head was pounding, his arms were numb and a small throb of pain was ebbing slowly from his right ankle. Ah, yes, broken, he remembered it all now. Snapping his lids open, his eyes protested against the harsh hospital lighting.<p>

"Nice to see your back with us Mr Watson." An unfamiliar voice sounded and the doctor looked sideways. A short stocky man came into his view, stethoscope around his neck and slightly concerned looking eyes peered over his glasses, another doctor then, John deduced with ease. "Do you remember what happened?"

John cranes his neck further, taking a short peek into the bustling emergency department. "St Thomas's AE."

"Very good." The doctor said in an almost patronising tone. "And do you remember why your here?"

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock. Where is he?" The blogger tried to blink away the fuzzy feeling his head was giving him and pulled himself finally more upright on the bed. The endless array of blankets fell to John's waist, it was then he noted he was no longer in his clothes but a hospital gown.

"He is stable." The doctor informed him.

"But?" John could tell there was a but to come. The man sighed.

"He's not being very cooperative"

"Why does that not surprise me?" John felt his eyes roll, but his head rebelled, and the blogger couldn't help but let out a low groan in pain.

"We've had to sedate him." John could have rolled his eyes again but decided it better not to.

"Can I see him?" The blogger was already half out the bed, struggling with his newly plastered lower leg.

"I wouldn't advise it sir, but I have already been asked by the powers that be that you should see him. I don't know who's in charge of this place but..." The short doctor rambled on to himself out of earshot.

"Mycroft." John grumbled.

A wheelchair was presented to him then. The doctor had disappeared off and a skinny brunette nurse was in his place, kindly holding her hand to assist John into his transportation. He thanked her and hobbled into the chair, still barely with it. What the hell had they given him, he hadn't felt this bad since he had... An anaesthetic.

He was half way down the corridor before he really could gather his thoughts. His broken ankle had probably needed surgery to repair. Damn, how long exactly had he been out? Three, four, five hours? John knew how long orthopaedic surgery could take and it was late afternoon from the peek of sky out the odd window he passed. He felt himself start to panic, not only did John know how long he'd probably left his best friend for but also knew what damage could have occurred to the great detective. Brain starved of oxygen for god knows how long, and the filthy Thames water had clogged in his lungs. The doctor wanted to be sick.

"Are you ok Mr Watson?" John then found the nurse bending in front of him. She must have noticed the look on his face because she wore an expression of concern.

"Fine." John swallowed back the rising bile and took a deep breath to find himself outside a closed door. Sherlock's private room, Mycroft's doing again then.

"Would you like a moment?"

"No." John shot quickly. "Thank you."

Finally the door opened to the doctor and what met him was near silence, save the slow beeping from an ECG monitor. John always hated that sound but right now the sound of Sherlock's heartbeat was the best thing he could hear.

The nurse kindly wheeled him in, leaving him close to the side of the bed she left without a word. When the door was finally closed John peered around the room quickly to find Anthea in the far corner, perched in the shadows on her blackberry. Mycroft was clearly either not far away or had been here earlier leaving her in charge.

"Where's Mycroft?" John mused.

Anthea barely looked up from her phone but did reply. "Sorting out plans to get his brother out of here."

"He can't leave hospital, he just bloody drowned!" John tried to keep his voice down, not really sure why, the syringe driver of sedative was sure to keep his best friend in a deep slumber. Anthea gave him a single look which said otherwise and John rethought his statement. Sherlock did need to stay in bed, but if the events of the previous year were anything to go by if being shot in the chest didn't keep the detective in his bed, drowning would certainly struggle to do so.

"John." A groggy voice from the bed brought the bloggers attention back round to the present.

"What the?" The doctor leant over the bed and found Sherlock's eyes cracked millimetres open.

"Do refrain from shouting John." The consulting detectives voice was slow and thick from the drug, and from the oxygen mask strapped to his face but he seemed reasonably coherent.

"How the bloody hell are you awake?"

"Don't be so tedious." He took a long breath and the doctor winced at the crackling sound of his friends lungs. "Years of drug use does have its uses."

"You git." John pulled the younger mans hand into his own, it was still cold, although perhaps this was normal temperature for Sherlock. It's not like physical contact was allowed, only on the occasions one or the other was in danger or injured.

"Now would you kindly turn down my midazolam infusion?" The detectives strained voice box sounded again.

"No."

"Please John." Sherlock struggled with another crackling breath, "my left arm is too heavy with this ridiculous cast."

"What?" The doctor leant further over the bed and spotted the large cast incasing Sherlock's arm from wrist to elbow.

"Simple non displaced fracture of the radius and ulna, just needed stabilising. I'll take it off in a couple of days."

"You will do no such thing, you'll need that on for at least 4 to 6 weeks. Any other injuries I should know about now?"

"Dull." The deceive huffed, ignoring the question. "Please John, I'm bored of this drug clouding my mind palace in a fog."

John pulled his arms back and folded them, "well it hasn't fogged up your annoying personality."

Sherlock pulled his right arm up, somehow managing to dislodge the oxygen mask. "Please John. I want to go home." He wheezed.

"No" John quickly pushed the mask back into place and pulled the mans hand away from it. "But I think Mycroft is already on the case."

"Mycroft." Sherlock snarled half heartedly. "Why must he meddle."

"Without him I think you'd be here for sometime, you should be grateful."

"Dull." The detective managed again, but this time his eyes slipped closed completely and his body gave up to the sedative.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I see we're not going down as well as A03. Anyway to those still following, enjoy and do let me know what you think. Chp 4 lined up soon.**

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><p>John Watson succumbed to the pulls of sleep very quickly. Without realising he had managed to face plant into the detectives bed sheets and was snoring lightly. Anthea payed little heed to him, letting the poor exhausted doctor rest, before it all began again. She stayed watch, just as instructed to do so.<p>

John woke hours later with a start to a hand tapping him lightly across the cheek. With bleary eyes he looked up to find his best friend staring back at him.

"Sherlock? Your awake?" He mumbled and cleared his throat, trying to get his bearings. The clock on the wall read 11.20pm. How long had he been out? Again.

"Obviously" the detective croaked and rolled his eyes. "Now would you kindly get off me so we can go home."

John blinked twice and stared at himself, to find that he was in fact still half on Sherlock's arm and shoulder. Well that was embarrassing, people would talk, those nurses were a gossiping lot.

"Wait a minute." The doctor straightened up, pushing himself fully back into his wheelchair. "Were you not sedated last time I checked?"

"Yes, I turned it off." Sherlock had already removed his oxygen mask and was in the process of prizing the extremely sticky ECG leads from his chest, the man had already somehow turned off the monitor itself to save its angry bleeping from patient disconnection.

"How?" John chose not to continue, was there any point in asking how he'd managed it with a fractured and cast arm, already under a large dose of sedative. "What are you doing?" The blogger watched for a moment as the detective finished removing the leads and proceeded to yank his first IV line out. "Sherlock! Stop."

"We're going home John. I'm bored." The younger man let out a horrible deep chesty cough which seemed to continue for at least a minute.

"Like hell your going home, you clearly have pneumonia setting in!" The blogger grabbed a handful of sheets, pressing it onto his friend hand which was now bleeding from the old IV site, any dwelling sleep now all but gone.

"Mycroft said I could go home. I heard him." Sherlock's breath caught again and he was racked with coughs but he continued stubbornly to pull his feet towards the edge of the bed.

"Why must you always act like a bloody five year old!" John's voice started to rise with anger. "Stay there."

Sherlock paid no heed to his friends raised voice and pushed himself weakly upright, a pinch of pain swept across his features which he tried best to hide. "No." He gasped and coughed again, trying to stand.

"Sit down!" John full on shouted now.

"Yes, do sit down brother mine." The other Holmes appeared then through the door, his usual calm demeanour about him, umbrella in the crook of his arm and look of controlled fury in his eyes. A moment passed between the brothers. "Would you like the same treatment you had last time you drowned?" Mycroft added, stepping into the room and shutting the door.

"The last time?" John looked from Mycroft to Sherlock and then back. "You mean, he's done this trick before?"

"Not quite." The older man stepped in and perched himself on a nearby chair. "Last time he OD'd on cocaine, took a seizure and fell into the Thames. Lucky for him Greg Lestrade was nearby to save him." Mycroft looked over to his brother. "Would you like to tell John about your little escapade in the hospital?"

"Mycroft." Sherlock warned in a very dangerous voice.

"I suggest you lay back down. I have made arrangements for you to leave in the morning." He answered. "Both of you." He added, regarding the doctor as well.

"Why?" A short cough.

"Because. Brother mine." Mycroft replied firmly. "Right now you can barely manage it off oxygen. So I suggest you lay back down before you fall down."

John's face dropped and he regarded his best friend suddenly in doctor mode. Sherlock's face had lost what little colour it had regained since the drowning and his lips had started to tinge blue. Without even realising so he found the detective was drawing in great gulps of air against his already raw and horrible sounding throat.

"Lay down." The soldier in John commanded, and this time the younger man complied. Sherlock felt darkness creeping into the edge of his vision. "Call a doctor." John shouted to Mycroft.

"You are a doctor Mr Watson."

"What?" John didn't turn to the older Holmes but kept his attention on Sherlock's weakening body. He grabbed the oxygen mask, pulling it over Sherlock's face. The detective showed no sign of resistance. A bit not good. He clipped the pulse oximetry back onto the mans finger, and with a hobble and slight wince he managed stand and turn the monitor back on to receive a reading. 90%, still a bit not good. Sherlock was outright panicking now, the look of terror in his eyes told John he was struggling for breath.

"I need you to calm down." John squeezed the detectives shoulder gently to bring his attention around. "I need you to slow your breathing down for me. I'm right here, nothing's going to happen. Copy my breathing ok?"

John could practically see the man trying to roll his eyes, but instead his lids started to droop. "Come on..." The blogger breathed in slowly and finally his flatmate complied. "That's it. Good."

Sherlock's breathing evened, but only to have the air catch in his throat. With a small splutter then a full blown hacking cough, panic set in again. His oxygen levels dropped and he struggled, eyes forced closed, brows knitted in agony, John could only guess how much pain he was in to be showing it.

"Sherlock!" The doctor tried to shake his shoulder to regain some sort of control. It was too late though, with a long drawn out breath the detective lost consciousness and his body relaxed into the bed. His breath almost instantaneously began to even and slow. John took his pulse, elevated, to be expected. Not dangerously high or low and his oxygen levels started to increase on the screen.

"Well I suppose that solves that." Mycroft's voice came, just as John breathed a sigh of relief.

Anger flared up. "What the fuck are you playing at?!" John tried not to shout and rouse the patient, but it was difficult.

"Well if your going to be his doctor back at Baker Street, then you'll need to get used to these kinds of displays. He won't be an easy patient."

"I know what he's like." The blogger seared. "I've looked after him enough times. But that's no need to jeopardise his welfare and care."

"Come now." Mycroft scoffed. "You had it covered. Your an army doctor."

John huffed, finding himself sat back in the wheelchair, very much spent. God, he needed to sleep. "Why isn't he going home with you? Surely you have private doctors on hand?"

"He won't tolerate anyone else nursing him, and he will not stay with me. You know Sherlock, he'll insist to being at Baker Street. And if anyone say anything else he will go there anyway. Might I add, he escaped hospital and ran halfway across London with internal bleeding just for you doctor Watson."

John felt heat blush into his cheeks with both embarrassment and anger at his friends stupid actions. "So?" He finally replied. "Why can't you sedate him?"

Mycroft eyed the blogger with caution. "And we both know how that works out."

John felt himself not winning this one, no matter how much he cared for the man next to him he did not fancy nursing a grumpy Sherlock back to health, stuck in a flat for days, weeks, on end. "You do know what he's like to look after don't you?" John pulled a hand across his face.

"All too well." The older Holmes almost cracked a smile but then it was gone. "Intolerable."

"I'd say." The doctor sighed. "He's not going to take being cooped up lightly, how am I supposed to keep him in the flat."

"He can hear you." The detectives weak voice sounded from behind the oxygen mask.

"I'm sure you'll find a way." Mycroft rose from the seat. He stepped forward to regard his brother. "Someone will be with you at 9am tomorrow to transport you both back to Baker Street. For now Sherlock, I suggest you stay put." Sherlock's eyes slit open slightly to look back at his brother with a flare of fury, if it was possible. "John, a nurse will be in soon to bring you a bed and sort you both for the night."

"Thank you."

With a swing of his umbrella Mycroft departed. "See you both very soon."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: thank you all for the comments. Do enjoy this chapter and review.**

**Paddy* - A British term meaning to throw a strop or temper. (probably regional as not all of us use it).**

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><p>John Watson could think of nothing worse than having to transport a groggy, grumpy and drugged detective back to 221B Baker Street with a broken ankle. Since waking up the entire morning had been nothing but intolerable in Sherlock's own words. Mycroft had managed to have his brother drugged heavily with Valium and although more compliant Sherlock was proving to be more than a handful for the poor ambulance staff charged with his care. Firstly he had refused to ride in the ambulance, then refused a wheelchair, then refused help up to the flat even with Mrs Hudson's cries of anguish at the look of the sickly detective. It was only John's authoritative soldier voice which had pushed the man into submission and after several hours of painful bickering Sherlock was situated on the sofa with John in his chair opposite. Both silent and spent from the journey.<p>

"I'll get you boys a cuppa." Mrs Hudson spent the next few minutes flitting about in the kitchen sending the pair of them worried glances from time to time.

"Thanks Mrs H." John sighed loudly, trying to stretch out both legs with difficulty and a small wince.

"You should have said if you needed a hand John. I've been worried sick about you both."

"We were ok." The doctor looked over to his best friend, Sherlock was curled slightly on the sofa. His eyes drooped closed. A small set of nasal prongs delivered extra oxygen to the detective. John had insisted that the man stayed on oxygen for a couple of days, considering the state of the Thames he inhaled. Wrangling a couple of oxygen cylinders was not the easiest of things.

John pulled himself up on his crutches and wobbled to the kitchen. "You know what he's like." He said finally, opening the fridge for milk he found it stuffed full with food. Thank God for Mrs Hudson. The doctor smiled and shut the door. "Thank you Mrs H." He placed the milk down and leaned heavily back on the counter sighing loudly as if to let go of some tension he didn't realise he was holding.

"It's no worry love." The landlady finished three cups of tea. "You need to take care of yourself John. I know how much he can run us all ragged."

John hummed in reply, feeling a little useless without being able to carry the drinks. Mrs Hudson took them and placed them into the living room, John wobbled back to his seat feeling like a spare part. When Mrs H returned she placed a small plate of biscuits down and sat in Sherlock's chair.

"So did Mycroft send you with any help?" The old lady sipped her tea, looking with worried eyes to the doctor.

"Sherlock forbid it." John took his own drink and cupped it in his hands warming his palms. "He'd never allow anyone else to treat him, not without being drugged out his brains like when..." The doctor trailed off, trying not to think about less than a year ago and what had changed since.

"Oh John." Mrs Hudson leaned forward grasping the man by the arm in a gesture of comfort. "It wasn't your fault love, you couldn't have done anything else for her, or Sherlock."

"I don't want to talk about it now." John's voice broke and he struggled with the never ending waterfall of emotion.

"Sorry love." The landlady smiled grimly. They both sat silently from then on, the only sound breaking the flat was Sherlock's ragged breathing and occasional cough. John kept half a wary eye on him and decided it best to leave the tea to cool down before rousing him to drink it. It was some time before finally the lady spoke again. "I better be going dear. I might make some Eccles cakes later. I know Sherlock likes them. Might be enough to tempt him to eat a little."

"Thanks Mrs H." John said for the second time. The lady disappeared then, making her way down to 221A. The doctor could hear her pottering about in the kitchen, the radio on.

He then turned his attention back to the sleeping detective on the sofa. Sherlock was spread out, legs on the opposite arm rest, head lolled to the side, mouth slightly lax, even from across the room the doctor could hear the gentle whoosh of oxygen. John smiled sadly at him, why did he have to keep getting himself into such a state. The first couple of years John had known the man it hadn't been too bad, the odd fight with a criminal, couple of head injuries but nothing like recently. Since getting back from his two year hiatus something was defiantly different about he man even if John couldn't put his finger on what. He had certainly seen more scrapes and injuries since, much to his bloggers shredded nerves.

John was loathed to wake the sleeping man, but he knew, since Sherlock had ripped out his IV lines in a grump that they had 'itched' there was no way for him to stay hydrated except though drinking.

"Sherlock?" John tried calling half heartily from a across the room. The man didn't stir. Getting up with a slight huff the doctor managed to hop across the room and plop down onto the coffee table. "Sherlock?" He tried again, this time a little louder, the detectives nose scrunched at his name but there was no other evidence of waking. John decided then there was no point in a softly softly approach and pulled on the mans arm.

"Wake up you git, I need you to drink something."

"Joooohn..." Sherlock moaned, furrowing his brow in displeasure. "Why must you shout everytime you wake me?"

The doctor chose not to answer, instead placing a hand behind his friends back he began to push him into a more upright position. Sherlock winced, his breath catching he started to cough hard. Long racking chesty coughs, followed by greedy gulps for air. The whole episode made John wince almost as much as the younger man did.

"Easy." John rubbed small circles on Sherlock's back, trying to ease the agony each cough.

"Easy... For you... To say..." The hacks continued as the detective tried to speak again.

"Shut up and drink this." John shoved the now tepid cup of tea into Sherlock's good hand. "Do you want a straw?" He added.

The coughs ceased. "I'm not an invalid John!" Sherlock snarled in return, snatching the drink from his friend. He brought the liquid to his mouth, screwing his face in disgust as it met his lips. "This is barely warm, how am I supposed to drink this."

The doctor sighed, making fists with his hands to try and stem his growing annoyance already.

Sherlock sat further up, swinging his feet round so that they met the cool floor. "I'm not drinking this." He left the mug on the coffee table and scowled.

"You need to take these." John rummaged in the bag next to the sofa, coming out with two boxes of antibiotics and some pain relief.

"Why?!" The detectives paddy was not about to stop anytime soon it seemed.

"Because..." John took another breath and exhaled shakily, and paused to calm. "Just bloody take them." He pulled himself up on his crutches, standing. The man made it back across the room, planted himself down and without a word pulled out his laptop, he needed to find something to keep the detective busy. They had only been back a couple of hours and Sherlock was already throwing a paddy.*

The search was fruitless, Lestrade was not forthcoming with any cases, not that John blamed him. He gave up, turning the television on for some background noise.

"Must you liquefy my brain with that drivel." A cough followed the insult.

"Fine." John threw his arms in the air. Pressing the off button on the remote he stood up as quick as his broken leg would allow. "I'm going to my room for a while." The doctor packed the laptop in a very convenient rucksack, one which he'd thought up. He slung the bag over his shoulders and stood before the detective.

"You don't need to watch me, I'm not about to expire."

"Suit yourself. You might be bored, but it's not my fault you threw yourself in the Thames. No need to throw your toys out the pram because your not getting your own way. Do what you want, if you don't want my help then so be it."

xxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

John hid in his room for sometime, he plugged himself into the internet with his headphones, watching BBC iplayer, updating his blog and reading medical papers for several hours. It wasn't until at least late afternoon when he finally realised the daylight had almost diminished and tea time was approaching. Perhaps after a nap and a calm down the detective would be a bit more amenable about eating and taking his medication. Who was he kidding, John knew there was no getting the man out a mood. Sherlock could be like this was days, weeks at a time.

The living room was dark when the doctor reached it after a hobble down the stairs. Good, he thought, hopefully that meant his flatmate had been sleeping.

"Sher..." John froze as he turned the light on. The sofa was empty, the cylinder of oxygen was still in situ and the nasal oxygen prongs lay discarded on the cushions, no doubt still hissing the gas through them. "Cock." The doctor swore.

"Sherlock!" He called. His crutches clicked as he moved into the room cautiously.

"Sherlock?" He turned toward the kitchen to find him. Strewn out, on his side. John could see him breathing, but it didn't help to calm his frayed nerves. "For f..." Leaving his bag he replaced it with the medical bag on his shoulder and made his way over.

"What the hell are you playing at!" John almost shouted but when he reached the kitchen, turning the strip lighting on his voice failed him. Sherlock lay on his side, eyes wide and staring, his skin and lips horribly pale and to John's horror his curls were soaked in red. A small streak of crimson made it's way in a puddle on the lino, a couple of smudges graced the detectives face where he had clearly touched the gash on his brow.

The doctors face paled, his eyes widened and breathing hitched up. It was Barts, all over again. John's breaths came fast and sharp, blackened dots muddled his vision for a moment and he steadied himself on the table.

"Let me come through, please, I'm a doctor. He's my friend."

The doctors vision blurred more, he felt his good leg giving out and before he knew it he was on the floor before his best friend, a stain of red from the puddle now on his hands and clothes. John stared at his palms through a sea of unfallen tears. He'd killed him, it was all his fault, he'd not been fast enough, just like Afghanistan, just like Barts, just like Mary. The blogger felt his throat constrict, he couldn't breath. Even through the haze of knowing that this was just PTSD he couldn't bring himself back into control. An uncountable amount of time passed by and soldier thought he might lose himself completely until finally a weak voice pushed through his subconscious.

"John,I think I banged my head."


End file.
